


Reaching For A Saving Grace

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 05.09 Coda, Canon Compliant, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Scott has a plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Theo could be watching,” Stiles continues, turning, stripping his clothes. They drop to the floor with dull thudding, sopping wet. The sweater, the jeans, socks, boxers. He flings them away, grabs new clothes, pulling on shorts and a shirt, tries not to think about how his hands won’t stop shaking. “He could have followed you, you can’t give up the plan this early in the game, Scott.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reaching For A Saving Grace

**Author's Note:**

> A not quite fix-it based on petal's [post](http://petals42.tumblr.com/post/126603922879/queerlyalex-petals42-replied-to-your-post) and Billy's [post](http://dontgobrienmyheart.tumblr.com/post/127038948935/what-if-last-night-was-all-an-act-so-that-theo).

Stiles should be surprised when he gets in his room, reaches for the light, and there’s a hand around his wrist, but he’s not. It takes everything in him not to scream and retract, but he knows -- 

He exhales, shaky, heart racing. 

“Don’t,” Scott says, voice cutting through the darkness. It sounds raw, the kind of sound that betrays so much emotion, and Stiles’ stomach is going sour all over again, palms prickling with sweat. 

Recently, Stiles learned the difference between a panic attack and an anxiety attack. Panic attacks are instantaneous, swift. They shake you to your core, your heart and lungs and all of your nerves constricting. You can’t think, you can’t get enough air in your lungs. It’s visceral on every level, debilitating. 

Anxiety attacks are less than that, more subtle. Just the constant feeling of apprehension, enough to be _almost_ overstimulating, but not enough to _actually_ be overstimulating. Your heart feels heavier, beating in your chest. The nerves at the base of your skull prickle, an alertness that never fades. 

It feels like Stiles has been having an anxiety attack since Donovan. A result of trying to figure out if he was justified, how much of an accident it actually was, he’s sure. More than once, he’s wondered if he wanted one of the poles to skewer Donovan when he drew the pin out, if he wanted him dead all along.

It’s remembering that’s the problem. He doesn’t know what he felt in that moment, other than relief. When he said ‘good’, he meant that was the word that flashed in his mind, hot like a brand, and relieving. 

He meant ‘good, he’s dead. Good, I’m no longer a target. Good, I’ll survive’. Maybe he meant that he felt good, too. Maybe he meant that he liked killing, that it gave him that same rush the nogitsune did. He honestly doesn’t remember, or he’s too scared to know. Either way, Stiles knows that he’s been barely holding it together. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Stiles says, instead of apologizing or saying any of the million things that’s on his mind, pressing out from his lips. He wants to scream again, but for different reasons. There’s this yawning chasm between him and Scott, and he desperately needs to see the gap bridged. 

“Stiles --”

“You really shouldn’t be here,” Stiles says again, stepping away from the light switch. The clothes on his body are too tight, confining, he can feel the water sliding down his face and neck and off of him. His eyes are adjusting the the dark, and Scott’s still wet too, standing there. There’s water pooling beneath the both of them. 

“Theo could be watching,” Stiles continues, turning, stripping his clothes. They drop to the floor with dull thudding, sopping wet. The sweater, the jeans, socks, boxers. He flings them away, grabs new clothes, pulling on shorts and a shirt, tries not to think about how his hands won’t stop shaking. “He could have followed you, you can’t give up the plan this early in the game, Scott.”

“If he finds out,” Stiles says, because he doesn’t know how to stop talking, nerves spilling out of his throat. “If he finds out, we’re fucked, we don’t find out his plan. All of that, everything that just happened, it’ll be for nothing --”

“Stiles,” Scott says again, quieter this time. Stiles doesn’t know what it is. Whether it’s Scott’s tone, or his body language, the way he’s hunched in on himself. Scott takes up so much space normally, like the rest of the room bends to his existence, and now he just isn’t. He’s small, defeated. This isn’t Stiles’ alpha.

Only Stiles doesn’t know how to ask why, so he just quiets down and turns to face Scott. 

“Do you want new clothes?” Stiles asks, because he doesn’t know what else to ask. There’s a list of questions miles and miles long that he could burn through, but he doesn’t. 

“Sure,” Scott says, dragging off his jacket. It falls to the floor with a dull thud, squishing with water. When he pulls off his shirt, his elbow hits the wrench sitting on the edge of Stiles’ dresser and they both freeze. Scott steadies it, and Stiles wishes it wasn’t so dark, so he could see Scott’s face. Instead, he looks at Scott’s fingers as they walk up the length of the wrench, and Stiles --

Stiles gets a full body flashback of his fingers dancing on a sword shaft, before plunging it into Scott’s stomach, and then sees Donovan skewered on the pole, blood running out of his mouth, and just --

Falls back shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the images, but it’s like he’s being plunged into them. The guilt floats back up to the surface, and Stiles keeps thinking it was a mistake to tell Scott; this whole thing, this is going to ruin them, this is going to fuck everything up.

The worst part is, Stiles will deserve that. 

Scott will look at him and realize that, too. Scott will realize just how fucked up Stiles is. For letting the blood stain his hands, for feeling relieved when Donovan died, for feeling _good_ when he was possessed. He’ll realize just how much Stiles doesn’t _deserve_ him, he’ll know just how fucked up Stiles is. 

Stiles couldn’t even tell him the truth, didn’t get around to it. Scott’s the one who cornered him, the one who made him tell. After Theo rescued Liam and Hayden, Scott came to Stiles. 

“He feels wrong,” Scott said, all nervous energy, pacing in Stiles’ room. “He feels off. I know what you mean, now. I -- I didn’t get it before, but when he hugged me -- I can’t explain it.”

“That’s the _evilness_ ,” Stiles said, trying to be flippant, but Stiles knew the confession would have to come. In order for Scott to be validated, Stiles needed to tell him about Josh. In order to tell Scott about Josh, Stiles needed to tell him about Donovan, but he couldn’t make himself do it. 

Scott was the one who sat down in front of Stiles, elbows leaning on his knees and gave him that _look_. It was Scott’s stern alpha look, and Stiles genuinely didn’t know if it had been directed at him ever before. 

“Just tell me already,” Scott said, voice low and quiet. Stiles’ stomach clenched down anxiously, but he knew where Scott was going. “You’ve been weird all week. I know you’re hiding something, I just need to know what.”

Scott knew, because Scott always knows when Stiles is off and _wrong_. 

Moments like before, like standing in the rain when Scott pulled the wrench out of his jacket, Stiles still didn’t know if Scott believed wholeheartedly that it was self defense, not anything more than that. Sometimes Stiles doesn’t know either, can’t convince himself of his own innocence, so he doesn’t expect Scott to either. For a minute there, when they were yelling at each other Stiles didn’t know whether or not they were pretending. 

Maybe Scott feels it too, maybe that’s why he’s here. 

Scott steps forward, hand on Stiles’ arm, and Stiles just _stops_. All of his nerves slam to a halt, focused on Scott’s hand on his arm. Then, Scott’s pulling him forward and pressing Stiles’ hand to his chest, and pressing his hand to Stiles’ chest, and he’s saying,

“Breathe, Stiles, I need you to breathe,” because apparently Stiles is panicking and didn’t even realize it. 

Stiles breathes, or tries to, gulping in oxygen, the steady in-out-in-out, mimicking Scott’s breathing. It’s over quicker than Stiles expected it would be, but he’s not thinking about it, not thinking about anything except for the look on Scott’s face. 

_The_ look. The look Scott gets when he’s hurting, eyebrows crumpled up, like he’s confused, mouth parted, hurt hurt hurt. The look that Scott gave him earlier, when Stiles flung words at him like poison, saturating the air between them with toxicity.

“You’re _Scott McCall_ ,” like that meant something terrible. It didn’t, it couldn’t, but the _look_ on Scott’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says. It’s sounds too loud, over the pounding in his ears, the white noise of anxiety. “I’m sorry, Scott. I didn’t mean of it. Not like that, you know that right?”

He doesn’t know why it sounds so broken when he says it, choked off. His hands haven’t stopped shaking, it’s like his teeth are rattling around in his head. He wants to keep apologizing, keep begging for forgiveness. 

_I’m sorry, please forgive me, I’m sorry. Do you believe me? Say you believe me._

Because Stiles _wasn’t_ pretending, not really. He meant every word, he just needs Scott to reassure him. Something, _anything_. He needs to hear --

“It’s okay,” Scott says, voice low, but firm, stepping towards Stiles. There’s exhaustion in every line of Scott’s body, and Stiles understands that. He’s bone weary, and he’s faltering. There’s no way Scott can hold both of them up though, there’s already too much weighing down on him. So, Stiles stands tall, holds his ground even when he wants to stagger into Scott’s arms. 

“I believe you,” Scott says, and Stiles’ breath hitches in his throat. “I know it was an accident.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, fails not to sound completely relieved. They stare at each other for a moment longer. There’s more to say, Stiles knows. The air around them is tense with everything they’re leaving unspoken, but all Stiles does is ask, “Do you want some clothes?”

Scott nods, finishes undressing. Stiles doesn’t look at the wrench again, instead he watches the way the shadows linger in the dips and hollows of Scott’s body, his muscles. It makes Stiles ache to touch, but right now, he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. 

It’s ridiculous, Stiles knows. Their whole life has been tactile, grounding each other with touches, but Stiles is unsure of where they stand right now. Maybe Scott doesn’t want to be touched, maybe Scott needs space. 

Stiles is so engrossed in his internal dilemma that he doesn’t realize Scott is done until he’s standing in front of Stiles in his shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. Scott scoops up their clothes and tosses them into the laundry basket, then he’s stepping towards Stiles, grabbing Stiles’ hand, pulling Stiles in.

“Tell me what to do,” Stiles says, slowly, unsure. Everything feels wrong, rubbed raw, vulnerable and terrifying. The touching helps, it anchors him, but Scott -- Scott looks broken and beaten and Stiles desperately needs to make it better. “Tell me what to do to make this better.”

Scott’s hands are on his face, angling Stiles’ head so they’re looking at each other. His fingers are so cold, Stiles’ heartbeat is heavy. Scott’s eyes meet his, and it’s like Stiles can see the broken pieces of him. It hurts so much. 

Scott doesn’t say anything at all. They’re close enough now that Stiles can make out his eyes, the searching look Scott is giving him. Instead of words, Scott surges forward and presses their lips together. It’s cold and dry and Stiles goes completely still, brain trying to catch up because Scott is _kissing him_ , Scott is --

Stiles grabs Scott around his shoulders and hauls him closer, kissing him back, gasping into his mouth when Scott’s tongue darts out. It’s biting at first, slick with spit and sharp teeth, Scott’s hands fisted in his shirt. It feels desperate, like Scott is pulling him in and pulling him in and pulling him in. 

Scott does, he drags him to the bed, and they fall into it, still attached at the mouth. It burns Stiles up from the inside, making him gasp. They kiss for a long time, heavy drags of their mouths, until Scott is pulling away and pressing their foreheads together. 

They breathe each other in for a long time without saying anything. 

“I - I would have kept going,” Stiles says, voice dropping to a whisper.

“What?”

“Like Theo said. What he said, I -- I would have kept going if that had happened, if I had really had the chance...” 

Admitting it out loud feels like a relief, angry ball of denial breaking out of Stiles’ chest as he says it. Scott pulls back enough so they’re staring at each other at again. He has the same searching expression that he did before, eyelashes fluttering as he lowers his gaze; to Stiles’ mouth, and lower, to where his hand is sitting on Stiles’ throat, stroking over his skin. 

“I know, Stiles.”

That breaks something in Stiles, something deeper. Hot tears slip out of his eyes and slide down his cheeks, and god, it hurts, it hurts so much to even hear it. Stiles wants Scott to take it back, but he knows it’s impossible because it’s the truth. 

“Why is it like this? Why are we _like this_?” Stiles asks, choking out a laugh. Nothing about it is funny, but it’s either laugh or cry, and Stiles is an ugly crier. “How is this our life?”

“Blame the moon,” Scott says, very seriously. Then, he peppers kisses to Stiles’ face: his jaw and over his cheekbones, his forehead and nose, his wet eyelids. Scott drags his lips over Stiles’ skin, tongue flicking out to catch the tears. It’s ridiculous, but comforting, and so very _Scott_ that it makes Stiles shake to his very core. 

“You’re so corny,” Stiles says, exhaling heavily into the air between them, trying to find some normalcy. 

“I’m sorry,” Scott says. 

“Wha --”

“For not believing you about Theo,” Scott draws back again, so that they’re staring at each other. There’s a tightness around his eyes that Stiles’ hates, a tension in his shoulders that’s been unrelenting for far too long. “Or, not being more cautious. I didn’t _not_ believe you, I just --”

“You have a lot riding on you,” Stiles says, nudging Scott so they roll over and Stiles is the one pressing Scott down into the mattress. He kisses Scott, feels him melt into it. Stiles doesn’t know how something can feel so familiar, but so new at the same time. He doesn’t know why kissing Scott feels like coming home, when they’ve never done it outside of the past 15 minutes before.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Scott,” Stiles says, dragging his lips over Scott’s jaw, his neck, his collarbone. 

“I do,” Scott says. Stiles can hear his voice cracking in his throat. “If I’m not, people die, Stiles, and it’s my fault.”

Stiles whines in his throat, he doesn’t know what to say, because he gets it and he hates it. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, again. For lying, for not being there for Scott, for not realizing just how beaten down Scott was. Scott leans up to kiss him for a long time, mouths slotting together, hands clenching at each other. Stiles threads their fingers together, lets the feeling of their skin touching keep him in the moment. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Scott says, exhaling. “We’ll figure it out.”

“We always do,” Stiles says. It’s always a close call, they never know what they’re doing. They’re always barely holding their heads above water, but they always do it together, it’s always _together_. They almost forgot that in this mess, and Stiles won’t let it happen again. He _can’t_ let it happen again.

Stiles rolls next to Scott and grabs him, dragging him in close so that he’s tucked in the embrace of Stiles’ arms, nose and lips bumping Stiles’ neck, and Stiles just holds him, breathes in deep. Scott’s hair is drying, fuzzy, skin warm and inviting. He smells familiar, like home and everything that means comfort to Stiles. 

This is where Stiles wants to be, where he wants to stay, but he sets an alarm for a couple of hours so that Scott doesn’t accidentally stay the night, so that he doesn’t get caught by Theo or Melissa or Liam or anyone else who’s supposed to think their friendship is broken beyond repair. 

In the meantime, he holds Scott, tighter than he’s ever held anyone, breathes with him, breathes deep. They’ll have to get up to face the next few days, to face the enemy, but in the dark, in this moment, they only have to cling to each other. 

“It’ll be okay,” Scott says, right as Stiles is hanging on the edge of sleep. Stiles just tightens his hold, fights past the lump of uncertainty in his throat. He wants to believe it. He _needs_ to.

**Author's Note:**

> Monday fucked me up, man, it really did.
> 
> [queerlyalex](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
